The Last Illusion

by ScientistWD

[X] Magic

“…”

“…”

He’s been silent for quite awhile.

I lift my neck, and turn my head to the side to crack it. Trying to relax yet remains fruitless. The white tiles here are still too obnoxiously bright to shut my eyes, anyway. I still don’t remember, but there may still be a lot of time left in this story. Then again, hearing all of this… it seems a bit surreal. I know I’ve read it before, definitely, but something about hearing it out loud gives me a bit of a shiver. I really was amazing back there, wasn’t I? Maybe a little overboard, but for a fairly good cause.

“Ponies don’t really understand you, do they?” he says at last.

I turn my head up to the mirror to take another look. “Trixie is in many ways alone, good stallion.”

“I take it you didn’t disappear,” he continues.

“Tch.” I gave a bit of a laugh. “Maybe not in the way you’d expect of her.”

It was not night forever. When the next day rose, it was upon a field of mist. The grass was still green, save for the muddy overturned earth. The sky was still blue. The birds had not come out yet, though. The storm last night made them cautious. With all that shouting and yelling last night, as much was understandable. Right now, the only sounds were of water trickling down various surfaces.

Some was dripping from what remained of that old chestnut tree. The crash last night had overturned it. In the soft, brown crater, there were bugs underneath seeing light for the first time. Water dripped from the top of the roots to run along a stream to the bottom. All of it reflected the light of the morning.

More water was soaking into wooden splinters and planks that had not moved for hours. They were becoming soft now, cast all over each other, laying in a heap and panting lightly. How nice that they finally got to relax. They had been worked quite hard. Some looked like they could never work again. But that was fine. Nothing lasts forever.

Water still was hanging in the air, standing around like a foal's mobile. Heavy with petrichor. Much of it had been kicked up by the crash, making droplets take to the skies like a thousand white butterflies. But it was daytime now. It was only water. Water scintillating the light of the sun, making something like a cloud that was slowly receding.

Drip.

Water was in another place, as well. The Great and Powerful Trixie was sitting on the fallen beams of her stage, wringing her hat in both hooves. Not practically. Nervously, like she was waiting for some judgement. Tiny streams like broken wounds pulsed from the wrinkles, running through the fur of her hooves just to drip. Oh. She sniffed. Caught a cold, perhaps, after all that rain. Her mane was hanging over her face, shiny especially with the light of the sun. Like tufts of milky way, remember?

The mysteries of the world, illuminated at last; the scribe emerged from its hole, quill scratching away at all of this new scenery. Like a drifting wind, the book made its way to Trixie’s lap, just in time to intercept a drop of water. A minor inconvenience, but tolerable. Why was she crying, that Great and Powerful Tr—

“Go away!” came her voice, a tad grate from wear and otherwise slick with dismay. “She doesn’t care about your opinion! She cast you off, now begone.” She swat the book away, completely sincere. It flopped against some other board briefly before re-aligning itself. Slowly, it advanced again. Rather than to catch another tear, it found its way to her side.

She brought her chin up, water still streaming. Her mane fell to the side. “She was so close. She was so close but not close at all, was she?” came a few whimpers. “She tried and she tried. But either they understand magic and don’t see it’s beautiful, or they see a superficial beauty and they don’t understand… It’s so unwinnable. So unwinnable!” She let out a sigh, shaky as her stage had been. Then her red eyes shot open, aiming straight for the scribe. “And you don’t care either, do you? You always mock her, always make fun of her, you have never said a single good thing about her, have you? Surely not in earnest! You don’t get it either, you don’t get it at all!”

She bat the scribe, swatting dismissively as it slid across the wet stage. Oh Trixie, never had there been a history more worthy. Why was she crying?

“She can cry if she wants to!” she half declared, half assured to herself. “Ponies cry all the time, some almost constantly the poor things! When somepony is sad, she is allowed to cry. Even Trixie cries she is upset! And when Trixie cries, when Trixie cries…” She paused a moment to bury a face in her hat. “When Trixie cries, it is sure to be solemn and meaningful!” burst her throat.

That had been enough. The scribe lifted from the damp floor, and hovered in front of the Great and Powerful, slowly making its way beneath her eyes. It was necessary for it to enter her view.

Why are you crying Trixie?

“Why. Is. She. Crying!?” Trixie swat the book again, to send it tumbling from the edge and onto the grass. “She’s crying because she has no friends! Trixie has been toiling for what’s become months over what to prepare for the Benevolent Ball, but the oh-so-great-and-powerful dilemma of ‘superficial vs supernatural’ has had her wringing her horn for something special, but there is nothing! Nothing, absolutely! And she’s crying because nopony understands her, or even comes close to grasping what she’s all about! No one understands her, and she is all alone! Was there ever a better reason to cry!? And! Oh, she almost forgot! And…! And…”

Her words trailed off, and she made a loud sniffle. With one final wring, and another deep sigh, she straightened out her hat and placed it firmly on her head. Her brow tightened like it did. “And her heart skips beats when she thinks of Miss Doo. It seems so odd, so out of place. Even though she’s only met her once, even though she’s not a sorceress or anything like what Trixie had imagined for herself… ugh,” she scoffed. “She feels so uncouth. Such a feeling must be as fallacious as those common ponies at flashing lights. However…”

At once, the scribe, which had fallen to the mud unceremoniously, was lifted by Trixie’s magenta aura. With a spell, she shook it free of the muck. “This will be the last time. She promises.” Following that cryptic comment, the kinesis spell shifted and aaaaaaaAAAAaaaaaa page was tenderly torn from its binding. She retrieved a quill and another small slip of paper from her cape. “But you’re the only one that can find her. You can find her, can’t you? Trixie will see her again, perhaps only once, if not only to shake this common pony from her mind.” She scrawled a few words onto the loose sheet, and folded it neatly into an envelope.

She scratched her chin. "But what of the Ball? She cannot put on a farce again, but all the greatness and power in the world will not impress those coots. Should she cancel? Flee? Or improvise? Perhaps she will master some new talent or eccentric spell. Bah. She will have to see; but whatever it will be..." She stomped a hoof, and stared at the wreckage she had caused. "She will make it sincere."

Turning to the book, she continued. “And as for what to do with you, scribe, she has not yet decided either. On the one hoof, a transcript of her life sounds objectively useful, but she doubts anypony would ever be interested in reading her life in such great detail. For as a flower cannot bloom in all months of the year, Trixie cannot be making history at each and every given moment.” She stood up, and gave a modest spin to increase the size of her cape, Omega Sphere soon to join at her side. “Granted, she will always be Great and Powerful, and a name is a name.” Her horn glowed, and with it, the Omega Sphere rotated its corners around her body. A shimmering circle elapsed around her, marking the area over which Mystification was constant, as always when a unicorn used a Sphere. It was dim at this time, indicating a modest magnitude for her Annihilation Quotient. “She will clean up this mess. Perhaps use this old tree for new wood, and replace her broken lights.” The wood in question followed her suggestion, hovering piece by broken piece into the air, and rushing past the showmare to be eclipsed by her cape. The chestnut tree, with effort as the Sphere glowed brighter, followed suit, whiffing beneath Trixie’s curtain after hurtling in her direction.

“She’ll have to see,” she concluded when her cape returned to size and she put away her Sphere. “The Great and Powerful Trixie doesn’t quite know what she’s supposed to be anymore. Certainly, who. But what?”

She set her envelope on its way, repeating to herself with an unfamiliar sense of longing. “But what…”